Condoms are a Girl’s Best Friend?

Trojan is trying to get women to buy condoms. The way they are doing this is to market condoms in a “discreet travel pack.”Replacing the packaging with a black, stylish pattern that has more in common with they way maxi-pads are wrapped than with the garish shiny colors and brandnames that usually come with the condom territory.

It’s a good thing, right? Women shouldn’t be ashamed to carry condoms,anymore than they should they be afraid to ask their partners to use them. So encouraging women (who only buy about one-third of condoms in the US) to have their own supply is surely a good thing.

However, it is still perturbing that in 2017 there are still no viable male-controlled forms of birth control other than condoms (a clunky barrier method that nobody really likes) or vasectomy (a permanent method that is, well, permanent).

Many years ago when I lived in Seattle, I took a temp job as the administrative assistant for Dr. William Bremner, who was then the Chair of the Department of Medicine at the University of Washington. The job was dull and involved making photocopies and coffee and filing and all the rest, and I was not particularly good at it. The main thing that I remember about that job was eating my lunch outside while worrying about how W was stealing the election,  and the fact that Dr. Bremner was working on developing a male contraceptive pill.

Twenty years later, W is an artist, and the male contraceptive pill is nowhere to be seen. There are dozens of female contraceptive methods: various forms of IUDs and other implants, a patch, a pill, an injectable. There is emergency contraception anda contraceptive film that you can insert in your vagina (though apparently it tastes terrible). There is regular spermicide, and female condoms, there are foams and gels and diaphragms and the cervical cap and the Nuvaring.

The options for male controlled forms of birth control are miserly in comparison and remain the same as they have been since the mid 1880s: condoms or vasectomy. This week, an article published in Basic and Clinical Andrology showed that Vasalgel, a male contraceptive gel that acts as a barrier once it is injected into the tubes that sperm swim down to the penis, has been proven safe and effective in primates.

However, according to a report published on the BBC website, primary investigator Alan Pacey says that there has been very little commercial interest from pharmaceutical companies in male contraception and that his research team is considering turning to crowdfunding to obtain the financial support needed to continue the research. Given the current political climate, where women’s ability to be trusted with the responsibility of family planning is under scrutiny, one would think that the possible development of male contraceptive option would be greeted with cheering in the streets.

It is worth reflecting on this state of affairs in the current political climate where women’s reproductive health is under fire both nationally and on a global level. If, as the subtext goes, women are not to be trusted with their own bodies, then perhaps the flipside should be that only men can be trusted to be responsible users of birth control technologies. If men could control whether or not they wanted to reproduce, without having to rely on condoms or the very permanent solution of vasectomy, wouldn’t this be a positive thing?

The male contraceptive conundrum reveals, once again, what is really at the heart of this argument about abortion and birth control: the deification of male sexuality. The dominant cultural narrative about masculinity tells us that men will refuse to have a gel injected into their private parts, nor can they really be trusted to take a pill every day, but surely does not play out in the real world, where many men would be happy to be active participants in planning their families without having to resort to an all or nothing option.

Perhaps one day there will be a viable male contraceptive option. Until then, there is XOXO.


Scarlett Fever in Our Little House

Fresh on the heels of poison ivy has come another rash — this time in the form of scarlet fever. I don’t have it, the little one does. He is covered from head to toe in a red rash, has been running a fever for days, and wakes up in the middle of the night moaning about tummy pain. Neither India nor I have had a decent night sleep since Friday. We’ve been to the doctor’s office twice, the emergency room once. He’s on Amoxicillin  and Zofran, a drug they give to cancer patients who are experiencing severe nausea from the chemo.
Scarlet fever isn’t something you hear about that often any more. When I told Sacha’s piano teacher he wouldn’t be coming to his lesson because he had scarlet fever, she was shocked. “I thought that was something people only got in books,” she said. I thought the same thing, and the disease does feature prominently in classic children’s literature.
Scarlet fever is caused by a Group A streptococcal  infection, and most often presents with a sore throat. He doesn’t have a sore throat, which somehow makes the situation seem more dire. I’ve had strep throat,  and remember it fondly as a week spent eating mint chocolate chip ice cream three times a day and getting lots of attention. There are no found memories in seeing your child moaning in pain, clutching their stomach, unable to keep even an ounce of ginger ale down, and covered in an angry red rash.
India thinks it could be appendicitis. Then she worries he’s having an adverse reaction to the antibiotics. She panics and worries and can’t relax. She gives him vitamins and acidophillus, tiny slices of apple, and lukewarm hibiscus tea.  I feel paralyzed at this moments, flashing back to those days in the ICU, when our little two pound baby’s life seemed to hang in the balance. Driving to the same hospital where he spent four weeks as an inpatient makes my heart race and I can feel myself shutting down.
“He will be okay,” says the doctor, giving us more prescriptions. “He will be okay,” I tell India, rubbing his back and giving him tiny sips of ginger ale.
And I really believe it. The picture above is of Mary Wilder, Laura Ingalls Wilder’s sister. She went blind from scarlet fever (or maybe she didn’t) at a time when the disease was life-threatening. Scarlet fever used to be a major childhood killer. Children who had the disease were quarantined. There was no treatment, and throughout the 1700s and 1800s, there were many scarlet fever epidemics.
I am often so skeptical of Western medicine, that strange branch of science that so conveniently categorizes the unruly behavior of human bodies into neat little boxes, which treats unusual behavior as pathology, which treats the side effect of a drug with another drug, which almost always focuses on disease and not on wellness.
But today I am worshiping at its alter. Thank goodness for penicillin, and children’s Tylenol, and yes, thank goodness for Zofran. Right now my son is sleeping soundly, and I feel confident that he will wake up soon and want a lime popsicle. I feel confident that he won’t go blind, and that he won’t die from a fever, and although the rash looks, dramatic and scary, it doesn’t threaten his life.  For that, I am very grateful.

Beware of Poison Ivy


I have a great garden this year. Digging in the dirt and watering plants and weeding brings me great peace. I’ve planted a peony bush that bore beautiful pink blossoms, scavenged wilted annuals from the discount cart at Lowes and coaxed them back to life. I’ve dug up free stepping stones from someone elses yard and brought them back to my own. I love being outside and creating something, obsessing over something and watching it grow.

A couple weeks ago, I got a vicious case of poison ivy, contracted while I was tearing out what seems like an endless crop of the stuff from my backyard. I was wearing gloves and jeans, but I wasn’t being very careful — since I had never gotten a rash from the stuff before, I assumed I wasn’t allergic to it. Dear reader, I am allergic to it. Very allergic to it. After a week of trying calamine lotion, Benadryl, Ivy-Dry spray, aloe vera, Solarcaine, baking soda, and cortisone cream, I finally went to the doctor. I left the office with three prescriptions, and two days later, I finally stopped itching uncontrollably.It’s been a rough year for my health so far. In February I had the flu, which took me out of commission for a week. In March, I cracked a rib when I tripped over a stone in my front yard, and it’s been a slow recovery. Now my arms and legs are full of scratches and blisters that just won’t go away. Let’s just say that 2014 hasn’t exactly been full of healthy.

I think that the accidents I’ve encountered have to do with an underlying distraction. Just like I kept telling myself I wasn’t allergic to poison ivy, I keep telling myself that it doesn’t bother me that I haven’t accomplished what I’d hoped this year. It was supposed to be such a productive eight months, now that the little one was in school all day! But that first draft of the memoir I had envisioned completing by now? Still stalled in its sixth chapter. The full-time, profitable freelance writing career? Still a distant possibility.

It’s not that I haven’t been busy: I walk my son to prekindergarten and pick him up every day, organize playdates, make sure that he practices the piano for 30 minutes on a daily basis, cook dinner every night, do the cleaning and grocery shopping, write articles and doing some freelance editing, bake cakes for birthday parties at the science museum, and cover the occasional shift at the school where I’ve been subbing. I keep telling myself that I’m not bothered by the fact I haven’t accomplished my goals, but like the poison ivy, it got me in the end.

So I’m admitting it. It bothers me tremendously that I’ve stopped blogging and have put writing on the back burner yet again, so I’m going to recommit myself to the work once again. And I’m allergic as hell to poison ivy, so  I’m going to pay much closer attention to it next time I’m in the yard.


Say what’s on your mind


We are fortunate to have wonderful neighbors. The family who lives across the street from us have been a constant presence in Sacha’s daily life since he was born. They have two little girls who he loves with all his heart.

One of the first things he did as talking person was to shout out “Stella!” to the little girl. He would see her from the window, or hear her voice, or the car door slam, and it would send him skittering to the front door to try and make contact.

They are six and ten, which is not always good for a four year old. They sometimes exclude him, have made him cry several times, don’t always respond when he calls across the street. But for the most part, they are kind and friendly, they are like surrogate sisters to him. When they do come over, he is so thrilled that he talks at top volume the entire time.

This weekend he had the idea to write all the neighbors a letter. This is the letter he wrote to them (yes, I was the transcriptionist).  It expresses, in three short sentences, all the love and longing he has toward them. “Why do you not say hi to me that often?” They say hi at least three times a day, sometimes more. But the times that they don’t say hi always breaks his heart a little. “That’s ok, I love you.” He accepts the hurt as part of life, because really, he loves them, the whole family.

He delivered the letter, and the next day the girls came over for at least 30 minutes.

So say what’s on your mind, and you might just get your heart’s desire.

Doing things the easy way


Yesterday we were going to go to an outdoor music festival to celebrate the holiday. But it’s July in the South, which means it’s unbearably hot. It’s also been pouring rain every day for weeks, which means muddy pathways and saturated grass. We didn’t have any food in the house, and we would have had to bring a cooler, and there would have been lots of bugs, and I’m not sure how much 4 year olds actually like music festivals. But still, I wanted to go. I really did.

Instead, we went to a pool party inside a gated apartment complex. Later, we walked four blocks down from my house and saw the fireworks. It was simple and good. We barely spent any money, and everyone had a good time. The pool was sparkling clean, everyone was well behaved even though they were drinking beer, and the kids played a game of throwing boats into the pool and then retrieving them. There was a wooden gazebo where we ate our food, a communal grill surrounded by tall pines where we grilled the burgers, and a gravel path around the mandmade lake in case you wanted to take a run. The 24 hour supermarket was less than a mile away. It was all so easy.

Until now, I’ve always hated those kind of apartment complexes, where every unit looks the same and they are all painted grey or beige. I’ve always considered these swathes of mass-produced housing to be an aesthetic scourge, a symptom of the decline of beauty in contemporary America.But after we left the pool party, I found myself fantasizing about living there, in the Belmont Suites, or the Arden Apartments, or The Lodge at Southpoint. I even stopped and took a picture. Doesn’t it look relaxing and simple? It might be ugly, somebody else takes out the trash. Somebody else fixes the roof. You don’t have to drive to the YMCA to go swimming, you can just walk downstairs.  There is a vending machine on site.

It’s the difference between doing things the hard way and doing them the easy way. I  have always done things the hard way, every since I can remember. And I have always lived in houses and apartments with plenty of character, but few conveniences. My house is 100 years old and it’s made of wood, in a place where the humidity turns wood siding into the perfect home for termites and other critters.

You can do things the hard way, and maybe it’s more interesting, but maybe it’s not. Some people think taking risks is the key to a more fulfilling life, but I’m staring to wonder. Who’s to say that hitchhiking across Canada and back, or living in a hostel for three months in San Francisco, or quitting your job to stay home with your kid, or having a child by artificial insemination is more fulfilling than staying in your home town and getting pregnant by your high school sweetheart and teaching elementary school for twenty years? Maybe it’s more interesting, but who’s to say that being interesting is even worth it? Maybe it’s better to be boring and safe.

But after a lifetime of choosing to do things the hard way, I doubt that it’s even possible to learn how to do things the easy way.

Drink water, exercise every day, post to the blog.

Watching things grow

For years I have said that I was saving gardening for my forties. I wanted to garden, but I had little success making things grow.



Since we moved to this house six years ago, I’ve been laboring in the back yard, tearing out kudzu and thinning day lilies, moving boulders, digging holes. I cut down a dead eucalyptus tree with a hacksaw. But this year, without me weeding every day or spending hundreds of dollar, everything is growing. Sacha has a little hoe that he works with every day. We have pink hydrangeas and yellow daisies, purple coneflowers and hostas with delicate flowers. Everything is green and luscious, life abounds.


Two more months of summer, two more months until my baby goes to school. It feels like everything is up for grabs. The ground beneath my feet does not feel solid. I’m being forced to take the next step.



But for now, I am marveling at the way things grow, even when you don’t do that much.

Exercise every day. Drink enough water. Post to the blog.


This is 40


Last week I turned 40. To mark the occasion, I took a trip with my sister. We made  a pilgrimage to Elliot Lake, Ontario, the tiny town where I spent half my childhood. It’s the former uranium capital of the world but now it’s almost a ghost town. It’s not close to anything at all. It’s as remote as you get, without having to fly in. It  took hours and hours to drive there, and there were hardly any other cars on the road. There is a stunning lake on the edge of town, exposed rock faces, fields of northern wildflowers. The air smelled like clover and wind, and although I hadn’t been there for over 30 years, it was as familiar to me as my own reflection.

We found the house where we used to live. This is a picture of the house.  My parents had three children here. We were  two hours away from the nearest McDonald’s or traffic light. They moved, then moved again. Now they live in a big house in a Southern Ontario town which has everything, and it’s only a 45 minute drive from the American border. The house on Bouck road is overrun with pets and junk. The people who live there wouldn’t answer the door when we knocked.  Roman Avenue Public school, where I was a student for four years, is an abandoned building  the playground overrun with purple loosestrife and devil’s paintbrushes.

I spent roughly half my childhood in the Canadian hinterland, and half in the nation’s capital. For half my adult life I’ve lived in big cities, the other half I have spent in small American towns. Half my thirties were spent as an ambitious academic, the other half as a stay-at-home mother.

You don’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but it doesn’t mean that you forget your past. Like most people, I haven’t really planned my life.  I made a choice to move to America, but I’m kind of surprised that I am still here. I miss the north. And now that I’m 40, I feel like I should make plans. I’m not good at planning, so I’m starting small. Exercise every day. Drink enough water. Write on this blog. How you spend your days is how you spend your life. And a lot can change in thirty years.


Ordinary people

This week and last I’ve been spending my mornings at McDonald’s. It’s a familiar place that is also foreign. It’s a place from my past. My mother would take me there for lunch when I was a teenager, picking me up in front of my high school and treating me to McChicken sandwiches and chocolate shakes, just the two of us.  India and I stop there sometimes for french fries or ice cream when we are on long road trips. It is a place that offers comfort and familiarity to people who need it. A lot of them come alone.

It hasn’t been comforting to me this week though. It’s a place of last resort, the the only place close to my son’s camp that has wifi and coffee, so I’ve been logging three hours a day here. The other hour he’s at camp I spend running. I am not a runner, but I am trying to get in shape again after four years of not being in shape, and so I run.

At McDonald’s, a man sits alone and prays softly over his pancakes, a prayer that goes on and on. A mother hisses threats at her toddler, grabbing his arm with unnecessary force every time he stands up to look out the window. A small man with a nasal drawl recounts the details of his car accident to a friend: “I hit her car and I panicked, I thought, I gotta get out of here. But she got my plates, and they charged me with a hit and run.”

The people who sit in McDonald’s during the day are unemployed or retired or lonely.  They take care of small children, or they need somewhere to go.  A friend’s elderly mother used to take the bus to the downtown McDonalds in Seattle every day to have coffee. I knew a man from France who ate lunch at McDonald’s every single day he was in the States. It becomes a ritual.  Yesterday a woman with sad eyes and fragile skin sat across from me and fell asleep over her meal. Today two men in baseball caps and florescent yellow vests sit next to each other, eating burgers and speaking in Spanish. Beside them is an elderly man wearing a bright pink polo shirt and baby blue cap, perched on a stool, swinging his feet like a child.

This is a picture of the McDonald’s we went to when we were in Barcelona. It’s across from the Sagrada Familia, It was a welcome oasis in a sea of too much olive oil and water that tasted like boiled eggs and hostility that was probably racism but could have just been bad manners. We went to McDonald’s in Paris, and the boy had a ham and cheese sandwich and I had a coca lite, and it was a relief to be sitting among regular people.

For years I hated McDonald’s. One time when my father visited me in Montreal, I complained I was hungry and he offered to buy me a pizza from McDonald’s. I got so offended I got out of the car and slammed the door. I thought that it offended my morals. But now I realize that my former hatred of McDonald’s and Walmart and going to Chuck E Cheese for kids birthday parties isn’t so much about ideals or calories or unfair labor practices. A lot of the time it was just about trying to set myself apart and not wanting to be an ordinary person.

Summer in the south





It’s summer in the South. It hasn’t been that hot this year, at least in North Carolina. Our air-conditioner is broken, but it hasn’t mattered yet, the wall of heat that has usually descended by now has mercifully stayed at bay, allowing us room to move and breathe. But it’s during summer that I start to feel that I am in the South, really feel it. It’s the heat, I guess, because it is the heat which is its defining characteristic.

The heat, and slavery, of course. This summer, Paula Deen is getting in big trouble. White Americans always act surprised at racism, especially the blatant kind.  But it’s all around us all the time.  Like, have you ever been to Savannah? That place is haunted. It is full of ghosts and places like Plantation House of Pancakes. I took this picture in Myrtle Beach this spring, but these places are everywhere in the South. So Southerners aren’t surprised at blatant racism. Because they eat their breakfast at places called Plantation House of Pancakes.

This week  I sent my son to YMCA camp. The room where the kids play has no windows and grey industrial carpet, and Disney radio plays in the background. For their craft they glued goldfish crackers to a paper plate. It’s not as nice as his preschool, where they made their own paper and had only seven kids in the class, and learned about cabbage whites and why it’s important to add details to your self-portrait.. But the big difference is that not all the kids in his class are white.  The preschool was all white, except for my boy. He was the only brown kid in his class. There was one other kid with curly hair, and for a while Sacha was confused. He thought Timothy was brown too.

On Friday, I will turn forty. I’m going up north so that I can turn forty in Northern Ontario, in the same town where I turned four. Summer up north is different. I’ll need to remember to bring my jacket.



Have you heard of this website? It belongs to Satya Khan, a fantastic writer who creates one or two paragraphs of beautiful prose five days a week, and emails it to you if you sign up for hew newsletter.

I love this idea. She writes for an audience. She sets the bar high and low at the same time: she writes every weekday for publication, but it only has to be a couple of paragraphs.

I think that’s good for your health.


%d bloggers like this: